Mother’s Palms: Cradles and Cracks

Mother’s Palms: Cradles and Cracks Read by Banji Chona

It’s in the sun, the soil, the water and the soul.

Tender love, straight from the mother land. The shea and mango butters, the tea trees and chebe oils.

Almost untainted water, kisses me from the toes up. Quenches the thirst, spiralling from the roots of my intricately woven carpet

of kinks and coils.

Lavender and lemon, apples and flax seeds.

With my bare feet on the warm concrete, the moss, the mud and the sand- I’m where I’m supposed to be.

Not watching the clock, but morphing into nature’s own design.

It’s a dream to be cradled by you.

It’s in the wind, the busy markets and the parliament hall.

Reflecting, ruminating, sitting down crossed legged with the mother land.

The warm winds can and do tire.

The cycles repeat and the people they speak,

Not about how to shift the political tectonic plates

Not about the rains and winds ripping through our cities, taking from our selfless mothers open palms.

Instead whispers swirl and chatter peaks,

About matters futile, like empty fields.

Where the maize once blossomed green, only greying brown stalks stood, curling over from the rot.

We reap what we sow.

We reap what we sow.

We know this. And yet we will still weep and heave. Scream and scream, chanting we were in the black.


Mother’s palms, cradles and cracks.


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